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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29020665">Pact</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity'>stateofintegrity</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MASH (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 12:54:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,698</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29020665</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Death visit the 4077th.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pact</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It should terrify him when it finally happens. Maybe he’s growing up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stride doesn’t even falter; he just matches it to that of the new (and very old) arrival. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seen you around,” he says, by way of greeting, continuing his rounds. He hopes he will get to finish them. There’s going to be plenty left unfinished - the cream and copper dress slung over the chair in his tent, a letter to Uncle A, to say nothing of the next fifty years - but Max has been in a war zone long enough to know that nobody chooses their exit date; he just doesn’t want to be remembered as a failed guard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t hear the other’s steps in the compound dirt, but he notes the tilted head, the questioning look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the OR,” Max explains. “I know you’re just doing your job, too, but it’s hell on those surgeons,  y’know - living hell - when they’re fighting hard as they can and then you show up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes the measure of the cold blue light in those eyes. It reminds him of the gas lights of his youth. Their flames always started out blue. But this is like a thin flame, he thinks, kindled in the darkness of some underground system, deep in the center of the earth. “I guess you probably don’t got a choice either,” he decides, generous as always. “You hafta go where you’re told, too. Am I keeping ya?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The figure shakes its kingly head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, good. Guess you figure I’m stallin’ for time - but that’s not it, really. I mean, I’m good with the delay an’ all - I just don’t wanna leave the camp without any protection.” He swallows. “Y’know, if I gotta go with you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The figure softens that blue flame look as much as he can. The unusual eyes insist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Max hitches the shoulder against which his rifle rests - a weapon that’s never fit him, that he’s never fired. He hopes the Colonel says so in the letter home - that he never took a life. The only blood on his hands comes from sticking himself with sewing needles! “Yeah, guess you’re right. ‘S not the whole camp I’m thinking of. I care about all of ‘em, of course. Guess I don’t hafta tell you that I’d die to keep ‘em safe - the Father and Kellye, the doctors and nurses and Igor and all the rest. But he’s what’s gonna be on my mind. The last thing I think of - if that’s okay.” He looks concerned, pauses to regard the tall, cloaked form. “You’ll hafta tell me if there are rules, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pat given to his shoulder, friendly despite the lean hardness of the hand delivering it. That will be just fine, the touch says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Max swallows. He’s always lived by the adage that you can’t get what you won’t try for. “An’ if it’s allowed - I mean, I don’t know if it’s up to you, but maybe you could put in a good word or two? - I-I wanna watch over him, okay? After? Everybody here’s got somebody. The Captains got each other and the Colonel’s a dad to Margaret - better one than her’s ever was by a long shot! - the Father’s got his children at the orphanage. But the Major’s all ‘lone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The late night visitor points, his long, thin finger centered, Max could swear it, on his still-beating heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me? I been takin’ care of myself long as I can remember. He’ll have his sister when he gets home, but really, please, if it’s no trouble to anyone - jus’ let me keep an eye on him ‘til he goes home.” A soft sob hiccoughs through his throat out of nowhere. “Sorry, he’s just real hard to lose. Easier to stop breathin’ I think, than imagine not seeing him every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifts his face then to look into those ageless eyes and is comforted to find they’ve gone golden, warm. “Will it hurt? If it’s gotta be a sniper or something... can you maybe lemme just keep my eyes on you? I don’t like blood so much. Sorry. Guess I’m askin’ for a lot in a war ‘an all. Jus’ hope it’s fast.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk on under the type of moon that’s always made Max uneasy; light like that would give a sniper a clear shot. He hopes he gets out a cry or a shot of warning, something to alert the camp before a deadly rose blooms on his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I did not come here for you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The figure at his side does not speak. The jaw, set in a sort of perpetual wry grin - Death be not gently amused! - does not move. He hears the words though, as if they have pierced his mind without bothering with the dual corridors of his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’re you hanging out with me then?” He hastens to temper his tone. “I mean, you’re welcome wherever you want - imagine you can get just about anyplace right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death floods his curiosity-bright mind with a series of images: He can walk amongst the stars to pocket their light when their time comes; he has slipped between the bark of a tree and its stately trunk to visit the grubs and arachnids that live and die there; he strolls the ocean floor to release the spirits of eyeless things that scientists have not yet seen even in the strange spirals of their dreams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow. ‘S so beautiful. Life here. So many kinds. Guess you’re kinda lucky, seein’ it all. Hope they let you see the other parts. It’d wear on you, I bet, just seein’ the end. It’s like us and the soldiers - we only get ‘em when they’re hurt or sick. Nobody’s at their best that way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death smiles - Max is sure of it - and shows that it is so; images coalesce and shift: a young boy with a solemn mien, watching butterflies in a beam of light; a young man fencing with a beautiful girl; a student at Harvard; a young doctor saving a life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Max breathes out a grateful sigh. “The Major. He’s always been beautiful, huh? Guess I knew - but thank you, really, for lettin’ me see. It’d... I’d go with you for a gift like that.” He remembers the strangeness of the situation as they begin a new circuit. “You haven’t said what you’re here for. Somebody in post op? I know things can turn fast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death shakes His head and draws out an elaborate pocket watch. Max can tell from the timbre of its ticking that it has wound down. A bony finger taps the initials on its face and Maxwell wants to die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, sir, please! Take me instead!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It is generally not permitted</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that voice says inside his head, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that anyone know my business but the one it concerns. There are, however, special circumstances. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Max grips his robe; grains of sand, stardust from long dead constellations, and bone fragments from beasts gone extinct trickles through his fingers. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes, souls become imbricated. Tangled.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He further withdraws the watch to show that its golden chain is knotted messily with a chain of fine silver. The watch there ticks busily, merrily on, and Max doesn’t have to look to know whose name it bears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mine? Mine and his?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Since first you drew breath. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I can save him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You can. But it is no light bargain. There is no escape clause. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you got my life in your hands like you do, then you know you don’t even gotta ask. Whatever it is, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A year. One year from the end of your life. I can recycle those minutes - if given freely - and make hours of them. I can make months of the hours and years of the days. But I will come to you one year earlier than I am due. The flower of your life will be cut down prematurely. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please. Take - take two years. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> my life - I do, even when it’s rotten - an’ I been afraid of you long as I can remember. Hated that something could be alive one minute and just gone the next. Never seemed fair. But you go ahead and reach into my veins or pull my soul thin like taffy or whatever you gotta do - but you make the Major have a full life, ‘cause I love him more than living and that’s the truth.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is a painless transfer - and, of the few times Death has offered this deal, he thinks it will never be regretted, not by this man. The golden watch revives, ticks steadily on. He pockets them both. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death bows - and gives him one last image: kittens saved from being drowned at birth. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love cats</span>
  </em>
  <span>, He says then, simply. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You have spared me the harvest of many kitten souls, Maxwell Q. Klinger. Live well and happily. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Klinger, I’m here to relieve you. Go get some sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A living voice seems impossible after the night he’s had, but Klinger sketches a salute and goes, stashing the rifle in his tent before heading for the Swamp to peer in the window above the door. He can just make out Winchester under the blankets. His chest rises and falls easily. Sighing in relief, Max takes himself to bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is working at his desk when the telltale board creaks. He does not remove his glasses - frames expensive and light, or lift his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is to be assumed that you found your way inside in hopes of pocketing something portable and easily fenced. Regretfully, for you, there is little of that to be found, here. You are welcome, of course, to try for a painting or something similarly bulky, but then the police must be made aware of its disappearance. P’raps going back the way you came would be wiser.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up then and aims the service revolver that he never fired overseas. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You!” He sits the weapon aside, eyes unwilling to move from what he sees. “I defeated you once. You came to her crib.” He shivers, remembering a fevered babe, her strawberry curls sweat-dark, her breathing labored. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You have turned me away many times</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice is like winter coming to live in the corridors of his skull; it is the rush of cold air in the absence of winter’s beauty, the pain of a brain freeze without the sweetness of ice cream. Yet, it is admiring, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We have played at chess. Often, you win. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A picture of his sister, sleeping quietly upstairs, shines in his mind. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But sometimes </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>I </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>win</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles fights not to remember his brother, or the dying soldiers who came to wear David Aubrenne Emerson Winchester’s face. “I could not save them all!” he cries. “No one could expect it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No one does. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“And so you are come for me?” He is more curious than he ought to be. He regrets, of course - mostly for Honoria’s sake. He has long promised her he would break the Winchester legacy (peculiar to the male line) of dying before or during one’s sixth decade. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, Charles. Two years ago, your life was secured for its duration. Collateral was given to secure the heartbeats you presently hear in your ears, to make full the breaths that stir and flutter your lungs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>These words should make him fear for his sister, but they frighten him on the molecular level, because they ring with truth. This fear manifests itself as anger as he scoffs, “You are saying that a man’s soul may be bought? A sort of modern day system of indulgences? The Devil is sure to be beside himself at so Faustian a system.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death appreciates spunk; it’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>lively</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I spoke not of your </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>soul</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> - but of your </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>life</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His brows come together in consternation. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My clever opponent… can you truly think of no one who might wish you a long and healthy life, even at great cost to himself? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You say himself, which eliminates Honoria. You have not come for a rematch on that score, I trust?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a chuckle in his brain that sounds like tectonic plates lazily stretching. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>You spoke of souls. Are you so blind to them? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles looks harder at this figure of legend, this swordsman with whom he has dueled so many times. His cloak is cut from a witching hour sky on a night that misses the moon, or, perhaps, from the darkness that crawls out of hollows to stain the ground in lightless shades. Something rests on a cloaked shoulder, something slight - something that belongs to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No - that, that is not fair! He doesn’t deserve this!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Deserving has never been part of the equation</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are called proud and merciful - but this is cruel. Punishment for our past matches?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A chance. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He nearly falls over, hand shooting out to find purchase. “I can save him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You can try</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he does kneel then, sinking to his knees. On them, he bargains. “Please let me see his eyes. And if he is suffering- please make it stop. The game is between us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If you could ask him, I do not believe that he finds it a game. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>On his knees in his office in his stately home, Charles looks at an ancient clock. Lacquered walnut, the piece was made in and brought over from Europe, its chimes lovingly wrapped against scratching by some distant relative generations ago. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I thought I would have more time</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if Max’s soul is here, a game piece, a flag to be claimed by the winner, then time cannot help him. He could call or rush to where Max is… but the young man is not there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might I at least be permitted to know what happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What always happens. Life ended. I came. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was he afraid?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was he alone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes. You are stalling. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I require information in order to proceed. You have intimated that my life was purchased once. Might his not be similarly attained?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death’s grin seems to expand; the black holes that are his eyes gorge on the air and the space in the room, all-consuming, giving back nothing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You live, now, because a Corporal in a dress, toting a gun on a full moon night, bartered seven hundred and thirty days - sixty three million of his seconds, for you. You cannot buy back his life with what is already mine. This is no way to fight, doctor. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might you lay down your burden at least?” His throat clenches, aches, at referring to Max as an object. Though he is not religious, this feels, to Charles, like the greatest of sins. He forces a self-deprecating smile. “I am sure it is light enough to you, but I am only human. It is… unsettling.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Horrifying. All of my nightmares come true</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death obliges him, placing the parts of Maxwell that are here on a couch. Charles wonders if the fact that the young man’s soul doesn’t sink through the rich fabric (Max might like that - </span>
  <em>
    <span>inhabiting</span>
  </em>
  <span> cloth!) is typical or part of the newness of the young man’s condition - or just Death humoring his own silly notions about (after)life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles makes no move toward Max. Death has a much longer reach than he does; Charles knows this. He enters into the quietest spaces in his mind, channeling his sister, who has always advised him so well. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Your strength</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she says into his mind, </span>
  <em>
    <span>comes from defending what is </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>yours</em>
  </b>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are calling me selfish? </span>
  </em>
  <span>he asks the image of her in his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Terribly. </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>Terribly</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>. But it is your strength. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So he resolves to be selfish in the best way. Charles knows better than to say he cannot live without Maxwell. If he tries, Death can point to millennia of spouses, siblings, and friends enduring after loss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes to his desk and reaches inside. There is a jar of buttons there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death manages an expectant look; Charles’ skin crawls as he tries to figure out </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I took them. From Max. He was planning to leave them in Korea.” He withdraws a buttercup-yellow button and places it on the desk. “Let this stand for Maxwell, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am speculating, but I imagine it is grim, your work. That it grinds you down. That you may wish for, ah, some breathing space in between tragedies - yes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death tilts his head; Charles strives not to fall into the darkness beneath his cowl, into his galaxy swallowing eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You needn’t admit it. Only listen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scatters  a few more buttons. “You know - you </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> - that leaving Maxwell Q. Klinger in the world will extend the lives of others.” He arranges the buttons around the large, yellow one. “Stray cats, if nothing else. These lives,” he tips out more buttons, “might they not enrich and extend </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>lives, delaying the need for your visits? Think of it as a sort of vacation. Let the light of that soul fall upon other lives, other souls. Let his life be the sun that nurtures other lives.” He makes another circle. “It is a type of infinity - love.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death shudders. There is only one blade that can slip between his ribs. Only one altar before which he is brought low. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes. You will want to hurry to Ohio. His spirit has known a taste of leaving. It perches on the windowsill, looking out. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I can save him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, yes. You will win back your measure of infinity. Be brave, doctor. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles pockets the yellow button and runs for the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death returns to the winter. Kitten spirits gambol about him, catching at the edges of his cloak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he sees Maxwell for the first time since the war (his presence a result of high priced travel and picking a lock) Charles wonders: </span>
  <em>
    <span>why did you not call for help? Why did you not call </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>me</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But he knows Max, so he knows the answer. The former Corporal would have worried about being a burden and so convinced himself that, with a little rest, he would soon be well. Then things turned fast and he became too weak and fevered to do more than drift in and out of consciousness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles strips away sweaty sheets and makes Max comfortable and warm. “There is nothing to be afraid of,” he tells his friend, ignoring his own shaking, “Charles is here. Your Charles is here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes nearly forty-eight hours before Max’s fever is tamed and he opens his eyes. Seeing Charles, he is transported back to his time in Korea - the time he got sick and saw a ghost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Major?” His voice is weak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maxwell!” The corner of his eyes actually crinkle with mirth. “Welcome back, my dear. How are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shaky,” Max admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not doubt it. You need food. Does anything sound good to you? Whatever it is, I shall find it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This reminds Maxwell of another Korean incident- his broken nose, Charles waiting on him to repay a debt. It had been really fun (except for the pain). “I’ll think about it. Think I need a little more sleep - my eyes don’t wanna stay open.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rest. I shall see to food. You just keep warm.” He tucks him in and then goes to survey the contents of Max’s cupboards. He’s been living on coffee and crackers, his only thought to see Max well, and he needs a decent meal, too. Searching his memory for foods Max mentioned missing in Korea, Charles goes shopping for the typical things - bread for toast and chicken soup - and things particular to his darling. He wants to buy Max a gift but thinks he owes him an explanation first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he returns, Max is sitting up, eyes a bit brighter - and he’s delighted at lime sherbet. Usually, Charles would not allow such a thing as a first course, but Max needs any calories he can get. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you know to come?” Max asks as Charles bullies him into eating some soup. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would not believe me if I told you. But I will remain until you are truly well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Personal physician, huh? Doubt I can afford you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A strange look comes over Charles’ face. “I, ah, I have it on rather good authority that you paid up years ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You saw him? He’s ‘sposed to leave you alone. A full life, he promised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In return for two years shaved from the end of yours. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“It was not me that he came for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Max thinks a moment and his eyes go wide. “Me!? I wasn’t that sick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles thinks that even Death was surprised, that this rogue illness quite reset the clock of Max’s life. “You were.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilts his head. “But you did something, right? You changed everything around.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would anyone fight Death, darling? I could not live in a world that did not contain you and would not wish to. Had he won, I would have asked to accompany you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Max.” His throat aches as he remembers seeing that dear, faded form slung over a black-garbed shoulder, borne away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since when?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since, ah, always, I believe. Before I even knew you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought it was just me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It shall never be ‘just you’ ever again - not if you will have me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If!? I- I’ll come to Boston. I know you don’t want ta leave Nori. My folks are out west, so there’s nothing to keep me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I shall keep you. Forever and always. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“You must get well, first.” But it’s a good pact - a life with Max in Boston. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night, they lay down side by side. “Promise you will not leave me again,” the Major says, cuddling his charge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if you promise me right back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles kisses his closed eyes. “Oh, darling, I have many more promises I shall make you - but I will stay - for all of forever we’re given in this life - and after.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where your soul goes, mine shall go also, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Charles thinks in the quiet of the night. Somewhere far off - decades away - Death hears and nods his agreement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>End!!</span>
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